On her first night in Madinah, Al woke up at three in the morning. Her body was still adjusting to the jet lag, used to the tahajjud prayer schedule in Indonesia—here, Fajr wasn't until nearly six. She hadn't slept soundly to begin with. She glanced at Ahmad, still peacefully asleep beside her. On the other side, her parents remained fast asleep.
Al exhaled slowly. Back home, even waking for Fajr was often a struggle. She would usually pull the blanket over her head, trying to sleep longer, to escape reality just a bit more. Her knowledge told her that grief should bring her closer to God, but her body responded differently—weak, tired, yearning to close her eyes and return to a world where everything was still normal. Where this pain was nothing but a bad dream.
But this was Madinah. The holy city she had saved up for, for years. Who knew if she would ever return? In this sacred land, every act of worship bore multiplied rewards. Her rational side kicked in, fighting the reluctance in her heart. It turned out, her meticulousness didn't just apply to worldly matters—it extended even to her pursuit of spiritual merit. I'd be foolish to spend this time just sleeping.
Al gently stepped down from the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom to perform ablution, careful not to wake Ahmad. Once ready, she lightly nudged her mother awake.
"Mom," she whispered. "I want to pray tahajjud at Nabawi. Please watch over Ahmad."
Her mother nodded sleepily. "Alright. Later we'll switch—I'd like to pray there too."
Al nodded back, knowing well how much this opportunity meant to her mother too.
She dressed in a dark brown, full-coverage abaya—so she could pray directly without needing a mukena like back home. Here, praying in such attire was completely normal. The chill of Madinah's early morning air hit her as she stepped out of the hotel. But Al welcomed it. She had intentionally chosen January to experience umrah in winter.
Mas, you would've loved this. You always set the AC colder than me. You always picked mountains for our holidays... she thought, speaking to him in her heart. Was there anything that didn't remind her of Ahsan? No. Even without triggers, her mind was filled with nothing but him.
"Assalamu'alaikum," came a voice from her right.
"Wa'alaikumussalam," Al replied, turning her head.
"Indonesian?"
She nodded.
"Me too," said the woman with a wide smile. She looked to be in her forties, with warm brown skin and a height close to Al's. Even without asking, Al could tell they were from the same country.
The woman initiated a conversation. Al, on the other hand, simply wanted to be alone—alone with the silence of Madinah, each step toward Nabawi, and a moment at the mosque where no one knew her. She wanted to escape—but didn't know how to decline politely, especially when the person was a fellow Indonesian. They exchanged names and where they were from, until the inevitable question came:
"Who are you here with?"
"My parents and my son," Al replied, already anticipating the next question.
"Your husband?"
Exactly as she expected.
"He's passed away. Please include him in your prayers," she answered, voice trembling, trying her best to sound composed.
"How did he die?" the woman asked. Al merely gave a faint smile without answering.
"Oh dear. Be patient, okay? You must let go."
Al's blood boiled. She wanted to scream into the stillness of Madinah's sky.
"Sis Al, I'll go ahead—I found my husband," the woman suddenly said cheerfully, calling out to her husband with joy.
Al stood frozen. She took that as a sign from Allah—a merciful escape from a conversation she never wanted.
She didn't enter the courtyard immediately. Her feet halted at the gate—Gate 25, the very gate she had once dreamt would become a symbol of romance in her life. But now it felt like the opposite.
Pitiful? Be patient? Let go? Her tears finally spilled. She knew those words were well-meant. But coming from a stranger, they felt like daggers. She didn't want pity. What she wanted was to not be reduced to her grief.
Be patient? Let go? Beautiful advice—when spoken by someone who had never endured this kind of loss. I know I must be patient. I know I must surrender. But couldn't she just stay silent and try to understand first? What did she know about losing a husband—her spiritual guide, her other half, her dreams, her son's father? Did she know the pain of waking up and never being able to ask if he slept well? She had just spent ten minutes looking for her husband, and then ran into his arms with joy—right in front of me, someone who had just lost hers forever.
Al remembered how she used to respond to death announcements before—quoting verses and giving standard condolences, but never truly feeling them. She had never experienced a family loss. Even all her grandparents were still alive. Death was simply a part of life—births, funerals—until now. Now it was real.
She remembered her own mourning. The people who genuinely came to comfort her, and the ones who showed up to be seen. Some had taken pictures of Ahsan's body without asking. Some laughed and took selfies in front of her house, saying "Wow, it's like a reunion!" as if nothing sacred had happened. She didn't know if such behavior was sinful, but what she knew for sure was that it tore her heart apart.
Now, she understood how to visit someone in mourning: with prayer and a silent embrace. Not with hollow advice or empty sympathy. If she were to speak, it would be to share stories about the deceased—stories that could bring warmth to those left behind.
Al took a deep breath. That woman—had she really needed to ask about her husband? Was it necessary to know how he died? Did she have any idea how excruciating it was to recall the moment of his death—something Al wanted to forget but could never escape?
With all those unspoken questions still weighing on her heart, Al took her next step through the gates of Nabawi.
She didn't know what she was looking for.But her heart whispered—something within those walls might just begin to heal her.